


The Longest Night

by hafren



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafren/pseuds/hafren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this fandom, 21st December means only one thing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Longest Night

He had ended up living, this rational man, in a country riddled with superstitions. He put it down to their agricultural life; when people depend on the land and the weather for their living, they spend a lot of time propitiating unseen powers. He'd been taken aback, at first, to find that his neighbours took the existence of elves and spirit-horses for granted. But after all, they'd have thought him equally fanciful had he told them about sentient rocks and weapons that could kill across half a galaxy.

He was used to it now. He had changed his mode of dress, because if his neighbours, on their way to their fishing-boats, met a black-clad man, they would turn back. He took for granted the young girls counting flower petals to spell the name of their future husband. One day in summer, he met an old woman apparently looking for something, and asked her what she had lost.

"Many things, in my life," she said, turning sharp, birdlike eyes on him, "but it doesn't matter what; I might find anything today. This is Midsummer Day, when the sun's out longest and lost treasures come to light. Anything precious that you've lost, you should look for it today."

He thought about it, walking home, while all around him people were out enjoying the daylight. The bright weather lay heavy on him, an indefinable ache he put down to the hot sun. Back at his computer, he ran a search he had been thinking of doing for years.

The man he was seeking had no reason to hide any more, but habit is strong. Still, it wasn't that difficult, given certain things he knew. He smiled as he saw a pseudonym that would have meant nothing to most people but was surely calculated to bring back memories to two or three. Maybe even to him... but no, there was no reason that should be, he told himself. But he called the number he had traced.

A familiar face, slightly older and fuller, appeared on the screen of his visphone, and he saw the look of shock come into the eyes as they recognised him. "What do you want?" The voice was guarded, suspicious.

His throat had tightened, but he managed to get a word out. "Vila," he said softly. The eyes looked away for a moment; he could hear noise in the background, a woman's voice. "It's just a bloke I used to know," Vila said to someone he couldn't see, and looked back at him. He heard his own voice say "I'm sorry," and watched the wariness fade out of Vila's eyes as he had wanted to see it do during all those last months on Scorpio. He'd never thought it would be that easy.

"You all right?" Vila asked. As if he'd just come back from a mission; as if several years, a revolution and a heap of dead bodies had never happened. But then Vila had never been one to dwell on what couldn't be mended.

"I'm all right. And you?" He thought he could hear children's voices in the background, and smiled to think how happy that would make Vila.

"Couldn't be better." As if he had read his mind, Vila flashed a warm, kindling smile in answer, and his heart turned over. He had never realised how much he valued it, how much he had missed it when it was lost.

 

The year went on, with its rituals that had to be observed. The last gleanings of harvest that had to be left in the field for the birds, the Straw King burned for a good crop next year - it would have been a real king once, he'd heard. Souls Night came, when those brave enough to go down to the graveyard might see the dead walk. He went, as he did every year, and saw nothing, as usual.

Now and again, he thought of resuming his contact with Vila, but was wary of intruding. Knowing himself forgiven should be gift enough; he could not assume Vila would be at ease talking to him. He told himself the man had his number and would call if he wanted to.

Near the winter festival, the days were at their shortest. On the shortest of all, as the brief light faded in mid-afternoon, he did not light the lamp as usual. Instead he assembled some candles on a table in front of him, rough, thick, homemade columns of wax, and lit one.

On this night, the longest unbroken darkness of the year, the spirits of the dead were strong; they would not walk, but if you stared into the light of a candle for long enough, you might see the faces of those you had loved come through to you. It was nonsense, of course. But it was a night he had to keep somehow, and this was as good a way as any. Better, at any rate, than trying to sleep and waking from nightmares.

Outside he could hear the neighbourhood children, singing the songs they always sang around this season. A couple of lines caught his ear:

_To bring the dead alive, my dear,  
to bring the dead alive._

So many mistakes you could make, and find your way back from, except one. So many things you could lose and recover, but even on Midsummer Day no light was bright enough to find what he had lost. And it was amazing what people could forgive, as he had good cause to know, but nobody could ask forgiveness of the dead.

As one candle burned down, he lit the next. He might have been some hours, staring at the one flickering point of light in the deep darkness, when he saw another, a soft glow from his suddenly purring visphone. He picked it up, not taking his eyes from the candle-flame, and heard Vila's voice.

"How are you feeling?"

"Why do you ask, Vila?"

"Thought this might be a rough night for you. What are you doing?"

"Staring into a candle flame. I... I can't sleep on this night. Can you?"

"Roj, you little so-and-so, get back to bed... sorry mate, not you. I don't get much sleep any night, what with the twins and the baby." He didn't sound as if he minded.

"Roj is one of the twins?" The name hadn't taken him by surprise; since the success of the revolution it was a wildly popular name for babies. He heard young mothers yell it all the time.

"Yeah. Here, look in the phone a minute, Roj"

He risked looking away from the candle and saw the face of the new Roj, impish, blond and very like his father. He smiled. "Hello, Roj."

"'Lo. You been up late? Your eyes have got all shadows, like Dad's when he's been on the..."

"Manners..." Vila retrieved the phone. "Off to bed with you, now. Sorry about that."

He could feel himself still smiling. "He seems a bright lad."

"Little hellcat," Vila said proudly, "though you should see the other one. Kerr's a total demon. I'll send you some pics. Do you want me to stay on the line for a while?"

"No. Get some sleep. I'm all right. And thanks for calling."

The candle was burning low again, but he did not light another. He felt he might actually be able to sleep soon. First, though, he would have to light the lamp, go to the sink and splash some water on his eyes. It was surprising how red and sore they got, staring into a candle.


End file.
